


What Happens in the Sandstorm Shelter...

by KyeS (FancyTrinkets)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull doesn't touch he just watches and enjoys, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Tal-Vashoth The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), The Hissing Wastes, Trapped, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26925529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/KyeS
Summary: If things had gone differently — if he hadn't met Dorian and fallen so quickly into love and friendship with his beautiful fellow mage, Trevelyan's pretty sure he would have flirted his way into the Iron Bull's bed at some point. The man is handsome in his features, intriguingly massive in his build, and very skilled with his hands — judging by the practiced way that he works himself over.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor & The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull & Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	What Happens in the Sandstorm Shelter...

Trevelyan gets up and crosses the small, enclosed room to listen at the door. It's a heavy slab, hewn from the same blond stone as the room itself, and he doesn't need to open it to hear the continuing roar of the sandstorm outside. It's been hours and the storm shows no sign of letting up.

He shakes head as he looks at his two companions.

"Not safe out there yet."

The Iron Bull, standing at the other side of the room, curls his lip in disgust and practically growls with frustration.

"Hissing-fucking-Wastes," he says and strikes at the wall with his fist.

He yells out, presumably in pain, and then shakes his hand. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth — also, presumably from the pain of just having punched a solid stone wall. 

"How long have we even been here?"

Dorian, sitting against the back wall, glances over at Bull and answers that question with two more of his own. "What, here in this room? Or the desert in general?"

"Both!" Bull says.

And Trevelyan, trying as usual to keep everyone calm, uses his most soothing voice of I'm-In-Charge-Here-Gents.

"It's only been a few hours. Scouts say these storms can last for half a day. Rarely longer. We'll be out soon. And the Venatori here are nearly dealt with, so we'll be leaving the Wastes entirely in a day or two."

Bull growls again at the mention of Venatori and mutters something about 'the fucking Vints,' which earns him a weary-looking glare from Dorian.

Trevelyan walks away from the door, and paces the room to stretch out his legs. He's been sitting for too long, and he'd prefer if the storm were over, but mostly, he'd like the complaining to stop.

"The other day you said you were liking the desert. What changed?"

"Yeah, look," Bull says. "This room? I don't trust it. There's got to be some freaky magic going on here."

"What gives you that idea?" Trevelyan asks.

He looks around, assessing the room again — much like he did a few hours ago when they first stumbled in here, coughing from sand inhalation and desperate for shelter. 

The stones are dwarven cut, but there's no other aspect of the architecture to suggest that dwarves built this empty chamber. He suspects some other group of people may have showed up later, taking materials from the nearby tombs to construct this odd little space. 

The only thing he's really sure of is that nothing feels particularly magical about it. 

"Nah, never mind," Bull says. "Just forget it. It'll be fine."

He turns away, muttering something to himself that Trevelyan can't quite hear. 

"Bull," Trevelyan says. "Dorian and I would tell you if something about this place had dangerous magic. You do know that, right?"

"Oh, but that would require him to trust a mage," Dorian says, sounding gleeful in his taunting. "How awful. The Qun wouldn't like it. Oh, wait, no — he's Tal-Vashoth now, so that can't still apply."

"Dorian, can we maybe not escalate this please?" Trevelyan says.

"Possibly," Dorian replies. "But I'm not sure. Can you maybe not patronize me, amatus?"

The archness of his tone makes the term of endearment sound less endearing than it ever has before.

Trevelyan sighs.

"Alright, look, maybe we're all a bit on edge."

"We don't even know what this place is for," Bull says. "That's what keeps bothering me."

"What if it's for _this_?" Trevelyan says. "I mean, look at it. It's secure, keeps the sand out, there's ventilation from above — I can feel the airflow." He points to the high stone ceiling above them. "And those luminous stones provide light without requiring a torch. Which is good if you've fled in a hurry, as we have. It could simply be a shelter built for the sandstorms."

"Maybe," Bull says. 

He quiets down after this, but he still seems restless, pacing along the wall and fidgeting strangely as he walks.

Trevelyan watches him for a moment, and then gives up on trying to figure out what's wrong. He returns to his spot next to Dorian and sits down. As soon as he settles in, Dorian shifts closer, pressing their shoulders together as he often likes to do when they're traveling and there's not enough privacy for other, more intimate ways of touching.

The silence between them is comfortable. Whatever sharpness Dorian was feeling before seems to have dissipated. And Trevelyan starts to wish they were stranded here alone — just the two of them. The room is warm and secure. And there's plenty they could do to pass the hours if they didn't have a third companion with them.

As it is, he can't even revel in the fantasy properly. Bull keeps pacing back and forth, shuffling and making noises and just generally being a massive, undeniable presence.

Trevelyan shuts his eyes and tries to rest.

A scant few minutes later, he opens them again at the sound of Bull's voice. 

"Here's the thing, boss," he says. "There's got to be something wrong with this room. Because this shouldn't be happening to me right now and it's getting really painful."

He's sitting down now with his back to the side wall. In front of him, his legs are stretched out, long and muscular. And with one hand, he gestures towards his lap where the significant bulge in his trousers suggests a raging erection.

"I know you're not gonna like this," Bull adds, "but I don't think I can go very much longer without taking care of it."

Trevelyan's not really sure what to say. 

He doesn't understand how the room itself could be causing a reaction like that, unless humans are unaffected and it's specifically made to target Qunari — or Tal Vashoth, or whatever.

Beside him, Dorian is watching all of this with eyes gone wide.

"So your plan here is, what? Just whip it out and jerk yourself off among friends?" Dorian asks.

"Yeah," Bull says. "That's the idea. Unless you have a better one?"

"No," Dorian says. "By all means, have at it."

"Boss?" Bull says, because Trevelyan still hasn't spoken a word. "You okay with this? You know I wouldn't if I didn't have to."

Trevelyan waits for some words to occur to him. 

He's still trying to figure out causes, and he wonders if the culprit was something Bull ate. Contaminated field rations, perhaps? Or something stranger still — some bizarre desert bug with aphrodisiac properties that crawled in his mouth and he chewed up while he was sleeping? Implausible, yes. But weirder things have happened.

"When did this start?" he asks. "Once we got here?"

Bull nods. "Yeah. In this room. It wasn't bad at first, but it keeps on getting worse."

"I don't understand," Trevelyan says. "I can't feel anything magic in here. And I'm certainly not affected myself. Are you?"

He turns to look at Dorian, who shakes his head no, and looks just as stunned and baffled by the whole thing as Trevelyan feels.

"I mean, yes," Trevelyan says, because Bull is looking at him with singular focus, and he recalls that he still hasn't answered the original question. "Take care of it, of course. No need to suffer."

And then he shakes his head ruefully and adds, "I hope you have something to slick it up with. All I've got on me is water and a lyrium potion. And I wouldn't really recommend either of those."

"Yeah, don't worry about me. I'm good."

Bull reaches into one of his pockets and takes out a small bottle of oil. He unlaces his trousers and then eases them lower, until his broad, thickly-veined cock springs free. He groans with the relief of freeing it, and as he slicks up his hands, before even touching himself, he mutters something about how much better that feels already.

Trevelyan looks away, casting his gaze to the floor. He's ashamed to have been watching at all, but the spectacle is certainly captivating. And he's well aware that Dorian hasn't yet stopped looking.

"It's okay," Bull says, sighing as he begins to stroke himself. "I really don't mind if you watch me."

At that, Trevelyan glances up again to see Bull's massive hand gently working up and down the length of his cock. He coats himself in oil until he's gleaming in the soft golden light cast off by the glow stones above.

After about a minute of effort, when he reaches the tip, he eases back the foreskin, and drags his thumb along the fat and glistening head. He moans a little, and then resumes his previous pattern of gentle, gliding strokes.

To his left, Trevelyan can hear the rhythm of Dorian's breath, coming louder and heavier now with the excitement of watching. 

And it is a thrill, Trevelyan thinks. 

If things had gone differently — if he hadn't met Dorian and fallen so quickly into love and friendship with his beautiful fellow mage, Trevelyan's pretty sure he would have flirted his way into the Iron Bull's bed at some point. The man is handsome in his features, intriguingly massive in his build, and very skilled with his hands — judging by the practiced way that he works himself over.

"Oh, yeah, that's so much better," Bull moans, tugging at himself a bit harder, and then biting his lip as he adds some more oil to the equation.

His eye was shut, but he opens it again and grins at the sight of Trevelyan and Dorian, watching with interest.

"You're welcome, by the way," Bull says. "For letting you both see the show."

Trevelyan draws a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. He's trying to mentally ease back from his own intensifying arousal. But he's failing in this, and it doesn't help that he can't seem to rip his gaze away from what Bull is doing. 

He's begun to thrust upward with just enough force to drive his cock into the tight, oil-slicked circle of his fist.

"Fuck," Trevelyan breathes.

And at this, Bull chuckles — or something like it — it's a low, strangled laugh, modulated strangely by his own arousal.

"Listen," he says, his voice sounding breathy and rough. "If you two want to start fucking each other right now, you should do it. We don't have to talk about it later."

The suggestion hits him, and suddenly it's all Trevelyan can think of. He imagines Dorian — the man he loves so dearly — aroused and trembling in his arms as they both watch Bull working himself, rock hard and frenzied, towards his inevitable release.

"I wouldn't mind that," he whispers. 

He's substantially understating his interest, to be sure. But he wants to gauge Dorian's honest reaction without fear of pressuring him into something he'd find distasteful.

But there's no cause for worry.

He can see it in Dorian's eyes when they both turn to look at each other — that gleam of raw thirst that he always enjoys so much from his partner.

"Shall we?" Dorian asks.

"Yes," Trevelyan agrees. 

That's all it takes to set loose a whirlwind of hands and fingers — unfastening belts, shifting robes, and yanking off trousers. Dorian climbs onto him, kneels across his lap to help get him free, and then sits back on the floor to face Trevelyan with his own cloak arranged like a blanket beneath him.

"Bottle," Trevelyan says, holding up his hand and calling for it with the same easy confidence that he uses in a fight, when he sees the battlefield below him from the high ground and gives orders for his team to follow.

He looks at Bull, who gropes for the stoppered bottle and then tosses it to Trevelyan's waiting hand. He catches it easily, but then fumbles with the cork. 

Dorian, impatient, steals the bottle away from him. 

"Allow me," he says, pouring oil into his hand and then moving closer — legs bent and spread — so that he can reach both himself and Trevelyan without undue effort.

He slicks them both with a careful hand. And though neither of them say a word to each other, the eye contact between them burns hot as fire. 

They're both unclothed from the hips down — with trousers turned inside out and tossed across the floor in their haste to be free of them. And now Trevelyan drinks in the sight of him — so familiar by now, and yet always so longed for.

He shifts his legs, bringing their cocks together, grown hard from those first gentle strokes. He shudders with the thrill of it as he takes hold of both himself and Dorian. 

They do this often, it's true, but never before with a third person present.

And there's no doubt that Bull is watching them. His legs are spread wider now and he's holding onto himself, though no longer stroking. 

"Damn," Bull whispers. "To the both of you."

"Jealous of this, are you?" Dorian asks and then leans in to kiss Trevelyan's mouth, hard and wet and desperate.

"Not jealous," Bull says. "Don't get me wrong, I'd gladly fuck either one of you if you wanted. But I get the sense you've got that part covered."

"You like watching, though," Trevelyan says, pulling back from the kiss, but allowing his gaze to linger on Dorian's lips. "And don't I know someone who just _adores_ being admired?"

He glances from Dorian to Bull and then back again, smiling indulgently at his gorgeous beloved.

"Hey, you know where to find me," Bull says. "Any time you want an appreciative audience, I'm always happy to pull up a chair and watch."

Trevelyan's not sure how to answer. 

He hasn't thought about afterwards. Not yet, at least. He'd be content to leave it all in this room and never speak of this again, as Bull has suggested. But if he's honest with himself, he's also a little intrigued. Bull's offer is something he might want to talk about later with Dorian.

"Hey, do me a favor," Bull says. "Both of you stand up and take the rest of your clothes off, too. I want to see you better."

He clearly has an idea for what he wants here. So Trevelyan hears him out, and then follows each of his suggestions — until he's standing fully naked with his cock pressed hard against the curve of Dorian's ass. And Dorian, leaning back against him, is fully exposed, touching himself with long, slow strokes for Bull to view and enjoy.

Bull, sitting back against the wall, resumes the gradual work of bringing himself off. 

Trevelyan has a better view as well. He can kiss Dorian's neck, nip the back of his ear in playful bites, and then look over to appreciate the enormity of Bull's cock, standing solid and flushed against the paler skin of his thighs. 

"Don't you dare come yet," he says to Bull, whose pace is growing faster, with the sound of an enticing slap entering into it as he works himself harder. 

"I'd have you watch us first," Trevelyan adds.

He pulls Dorian even tighter against him, kissing and sucking along his neck the way he likes, until Dorian is gasping with pleasure. 

All the while, Dorian's strong, shapely hands glide and tug along the length of his own perfect cock. Trevelyan looks down, mesmerized as he takes in the view. He's still not sure what he ever did right to deserve this wonderful, gorgeous, and occasionally infuriating man — but whatever it was, he's eternally grateful.

What pulls his attention away at last is the sound of Bull's voice.

"Is this ever weird for you, boss?" he asks. "Fucking your closest friend, I mean?"

"No," Trevelyan says without a moment's hesitation. "Quite the opposite. It's everything I want."

"Amatus," Dorian says, arching back against him, and then turning his head for a quick, glancing kiss.

"Love you," Trevelyan whispers.

And Maker's breath, how he'd love to bend the man over and fuck into him, deep and tight and satisfying. But without a chance for cleaning beforehand and bathing after, that rarely goes as well as anyone imagines. So instead he adjusts his stance to push gently between his lover's strong thighs. 

But, when all's said and done, that's not how he comes. Because as he starts to get close, working faster and with greater force, Dorian stops him and steps away. 

"Alright," he says. "Let's not make a mess of me."

"Have a better idea, do you?" 

With full assurances from Bull that the oil they've rubbed themselves with is not only edible, but also tastes good, Dorian drops to his knees — cloak folded beneath them for comfort — and takes Trevelyan's cock deep into his mouth. 

It's always a welcome sight to behold — standing up, looking down the length of his own chest and belly, and watching the way the thickness of his cock works in and out past Dorian's ready lips. It's erotic enough on its own, but now he's also turned on to be showing off for Bull: his own beauty and virility, and the glorious way it feels to see how much Dorian loves and desires him.

He's smiling, broad and happy, as the potency of this feeling — and the skill of Dorian's cocksucking — overwhelms him. He spills over with it, crying out in pleasure, as his handsome lover swallows it down.

After that, he returns the favor, bidding Dorian to lie down and get comfortable. 

"Oh, fuck," Bull says, as Trevelyan bends low to lick and suck along the length of Dorian's cock. 

Trevelyan can hear him moments later — Bull shouts out loud as he comes.

But he isn't watching that. Not anymore. Instead Trevelyan's looking up, meeting Dorian's gaze and making sure not to spill a drop when at last his pleasure breaks. He drinks it all down, and unpleasant though it tastes, he's happy to do this.

Afterwards, it always feels a bit odd to shimmy up and kiss him, with the bitter taste still lingering in his mouth — but that doesn't ever stop him from doing it anyway. Because Dorian likes to. And Trevelyan would give him the world if he could. He loves this man so much.

Before Trevelyan pulls away, he whispers, "Still alright?"

"No," Dorian says, offering up his fond, familiar lopsided grin. "Never that. You were perfect."

"Glad to hear it."

He grabs a pair of discarded trousers from off the floor and hands them to Dorian, who immediately pushes them away.

"Those are yours, you savage," Dorian tells him, grinning playfully. "That's not a fabric mistake I'd _ever_ make."

He's joking, but also he's serious. Trevelyan doesn't mind the insult. He's never cared a whit for fashion and they both know it.

From across the room, Bull groans. But he sounds relaxed this time. Not at all in pain.

"Damn," he says, relacing his trousers, and seeming a bit dazed as he looks around the room. "Not what I thought I'd be doing today. But I guess I can't complain."

And Trevelyan's certainly glad to hear it. The complaints, after all, had been starting to get to him.


End file.
